


The Morning After

by Boeshane42



Series: Night Before / Morning After [2]
Category: Torchwood RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-26
Updated: 2011-01-26
Packaged: 2017-10-15 02:38:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,384
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/156180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Boeshane42/pseuds/Boeshane42
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Following a conversation with John, Gareth tries to enjoy a quiet evening of porn and masturbation. He fails miserably.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Morning After

**Author's Note:**

> This is a sequel to "The Night Before". Despite the title, it doesn't actually take place the morning after, more like several months later.
> 
> Warning: I don't even. General RPF-related disturbing weirdness? Possibly offensive? You probably shouldn't read this.

Gareth is leaning back against the side of a news van when he spots John’s new MG pulling into the BBC offices car park. He squints as the sun reflected off the windshield hits his eyes, blinding even through his dark sunglasses. As John brings the car to a stop in the parking spot next to him, Gareth takes a slow, final drag off his fag and then flicks it away. 

“Fancy meeting you here,” John calls as he steps out of the car and locks it. He’s wearing jeans and a black polo, looking fit and tanned and happy and everything Gareth isn’t.

“That should be my line. I thought you were in LA.”

John smiles, comes closer to give him half a hug and a peck on the cheek. “I’m visiting. Have some papers they want me to sign,” he replies, gesturing vaguely to the large office building. “You?”

 “Paperwork. Shooting next week.”

“Anything interesting?”

Gareth wonders what John would deem interesting, decides that a guest appearance in a soap probably wouldn’t qualify. “Not really... money is alright, though. You look good,” he tells John, forcing a smile. 

John nods, muttering “thanks” as he gives Gareth the once-over. Gareth is thankful when John tactfully avoids saying anything back. He really doesn’t need to be told that he looks like hell. The expressions on the network representatives’ faces when he’d entered the room not even an hour earlier were more than enough. He was half-expecting them to put in a last-minute clause into his contract stating he’s required to lose weight and look proper before they start filming. 

“I heard about…” John starts, but hesitates before adding more quietly “Gemma…” 

Gareth winces. “Yeah… You and everyone else. Fucking twitter.”  He hopes to leave it at that. John probably knows most of the story by now, but it’s not a conversation he feels comfortable having with the other man. 

“Any chance of working it out…?” John’s tone sounds genuinely sympathetic.

Gareth looks away, shrugs again. “Maybe. Maybe she’s better off. I’m a right twat.”

“No argument there.”

“Thanks,” Gareth retorts and rolls his eyes. “You’re very supportive.” If that’s John’s idea of a pep-talk it’s not particularly effective.

John snorts. “You don’t need support, you need to clean up your act.” 

“You’re one to talk.” 

“Hey! My act is clean.”

“No longer exposing yourself in public, then?”

For a moment John is speechless, but after another beat he cracks up and shakes his head. “I’m… trying to give that up,” he replies, chuckling.  

“Your fans will be heartbroken,” Gareth says a bit mockingly.  

“I can always try your strategy,” John offers. “I’m sure they’ll be happy enough once I start _fucking_ them.”

That one hits below the belt and Gareth makes a face. He takes off his sunglasses and rubs his eyes tiredly. “I was… drunk,” he replies with a sigh. 

“Really? I would never have guessed,” John says drily. 

“I’d say ‘fuck you’ but you’d probably take it as an invitation.”

“Does that mean you don’t want another go?” The manner in which it’s asked suggests it isn’t any kind of offer. 

“The first one was bad enough, thanks.” Gareth jibes. It’s a lie, of course, but he’s not about to tell John that it was the best head he’d ever gotten. Not like the man needs his ego stroked even more.   
   
John nods, but his expression loses some of its humor. After a few more seconds of awkward silence Gareth is ready to make his excuses and get the hell out of there. John’s hand on his arm stops him.

“I… kind of owe you an apology…” John says hesitantly. It’s unexpected, and Gareth frowns at him in confusion. “About that night… in LA. Scott said…” 

Gareth huffs incredulously. “You told Scott?” 

“Of course I did.” 

For a second Gareth just gapes, but then his expression slowly turns into a smirk. “Was he jealous?” 

John rolls his eyes. “No. But I did get a lecture about sobriety and consent. I shouldn’t have done what I did while you were--“ 

“--Really, John,” Gareth says, exasperated. “I don’t care… hardly even remember it.” Another lie. He remembers only too well, and not because the experience was particularly traumatizing.

John purses his lips but after another second lets go of Gareth’s arm. “So we’re okay?” 

Gareth nods, smiling a little before he replaces his sunglasses. “We’re good.”

*** 

All in all, things aren’t that bad. 

He has the place to himself, no one to bother him, plenty of liquor, plenty of smokes, and at least six more porn movies he’s yet to see on the pay-per-view. 

On the television screen, a busty bottle-blond, naked but for her high-heeled vinyl boots, shoves a plastic dildo into her friend’s cunt. Gareth’s cock gives a somewhat interested jerk in his hand, but remains only half-hard. Gareth looks down with a frown. He doesn’t think he’s had that much to drink, but then again, with all the empty bottles strewn around the room, it’s easy to lose count. 

The image on the screen changes and now it’s back to the petite brunette, all pink lips and milky white skin, attending to a well-muscled blonde guy. Her mouth stretches obscenely around the guy’s veiny, huge cock and she continues to deep-throat him with practiced ease. 

Gareth sighs as his cock hardens further and starts wanking himself slowly. He slouches down on the sofa, spreading his legs and leaning his head back against the cushion. When he closes his eyes, it’s easy to tune out the cheesy music and fake moans, and imagine the girl’s lips around his own cock, sliding and teasing. He quickens the movements of his hand on his cock, but after a few more seconds bites his lips in frustration because it doesn’t seem to be enough. 

A muted male moan carries from the telly, and in Gareth’s mind’s eye, the lips wrapped around his cock are suddenly replaced by wider, firmer ones. The eyes looking up at him, sultry and teasing, are John’s. John, hungrily sucking on him, like during that night in LA, his throat milking the head of Gareth’s cock like no woman has ever quite managed.

With a hoarse, startled cry, Gareth jerks his hips up and comes, spilling over his own fist and shirt. 

His eyes snap open in shock and he curses, a kind of horror seeping in even as his body’s still tingling with post-orgasmic contentment. 

Fuck, did he just…? 

He shakes his head in denial as he reaches for the box of tissues on the coffee table. Once he’s cleaned up and tucked back into his jeans he takes a shuddering breath and turns off the television. In the ensuing silence, his heartbeats seem unnaturally loud in his ears. 

The cool smoothness of the scotch bottle is comforting and he pours generously into his empty glass. As the rim of the glass touches his lips he pauses, hesitating.

A reevaluation of the situation seems unavoidable.

It’s Friday night and he’s home alone.

Drinking.

Wanking to fantasies about John Barrowman. 

All in all, things are about as bad as they can get. 

The bottom of the still-full glass hits the wood of the coffee table with a thud. 

Gareth finds his mobile on the kitchen table, buried under old, ripe boxes of take-out food. His call, as expected, goes directly to her voice-mail, but for once he doesn’t hang up right away, instead waiting for the tone. “Hi… It’s me,” he starts hesitantly. “Um… I don’t know if you’re checking your messages, but… I…Uh…” he trails off, then takes a shuddering breath and tries again. “…wanted to say that I miss you.”

It feels like the first true thing to come out of his mouth in a long time.

“And… I miss the dogs, and I think I’m going mental, and I’m so fucking  _sorry_.” His voice breaks and he has to pause for a couple of seconds. “Call me back. Please?” The words get stuck in his throat and he snaps the phone closed. 

He remains standing, frozen, for several long moments. Out on the street, a car horn blares, making him jump. 

Gareth pushes the mobile into his back pocket, takes a deep breath and starts cleaning up.

 


End file.
